


Fates Unsealed

by ScullyLikesScience



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Drabble, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending, Jealousy, Missing Scene, POV Jon Snow, Pining, Possibly Unrequited Love, Post-Canon, Pseudo-Incest, R Plus L Equals J, Romance, The War for the Dawn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-04 06:03:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16341188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScullyLikesScience/pseuds/ScullyLikesScience
Summary: A collection of drabbles highlighting the emotional journey of Jon Snow's relationship with his half-sister, Sansa Stark.





	1. Relief Short-Lived

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheEagleGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheEagleGirl/gifts).



> Written for [Jonsa Drabbles](http://jonsadrabbles.tumblr.com) on Tumblr
> 
> Day One - Relief  
> Day Two - Touch  
> Day Three - Snowflakes  
> Day Four - Truth  
> Day Five - Bastards  
> Day Six - Tears  
> Day Seven - Free Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He had thought on it long and hard, lying abed at night while his brothers slept around him. Robb would someday inherit Winterfell, would command great armies as the Warden of the North. Bran and Rickon would be Robb's bannermen and rule holdfasts in his name. His sisters Arya and Sansa would marry the heirs of other great houses and go south as mistress of castles of their own. But what place could a bastard hope to earn?" ~ _A Game of Thrones_ , Jon I

Jon woke just before dawn, dressed, and made his way to the castle courtyard, Ghost padding silently beside him. It was awash with noise and bustle as men prepared for another hunt. The night before, his lord father had informed him that he would be going along this time. The invitation had come as a surprise. Prince Joffrey would be accompanying King Robert, and so Robb would be going, as was Theon Greyjoy and Uncle Benjen, but he never expected to be asked to join.

His father had said it would give them an opportunity to speak, and his stomach tightened at the sight of his uncle stepping into the courtyard. He wondered if Benjen had told his father about his request to join the Night’s Watch. He felt nervous excitement surging through him, praying he would be allowed to go to the Wall.

After fetching his horse from the stable, he joined the party gathering in the yard. Soon they departed the castle through the Hunter’s Gate and made for the wolfswood. When they neared the tree line, Jon watched as Ghost lifted his nose from the ground as if to taste the air. The very next moment, the direwolf was sprinting across the field and disappearing in the trees, Robb’s wolf running after him.

Once they were inside the forest, the hunting horn sounded, and the hounds were loosed. While most of the hunters were chasing boar, Jon stayed behind. He and Robb and Theon stuck together, separating themselves from the royal party, Ghost and Grey Wind moving to and fro among the trees not far ahead of them. To his delight, their lord father also opted to stay back instead of remaining with the king.

“Jon,” ventured Lord Stark, riding beside him. “There is that matter I wanted to speak to you about.”

“Yes?” Jon turned to meet his eye, his nerves starting to fray.

His father glanced at Robb and Theon riding in front of them and came to a stop, allowing some distance to grow between them. “I’ve been informed that you wish to join the Night’s Watch.”

He nodded, swallowing. “I do, Father.”

“The Night’s Watch vow is a vow for life. Do you know what it is you’re asking? Do you understand what you’d be giving up?”

“I’m a bastard,” Jon answered quietly, his guts twisting. “What lands or titles could I ever hope to inherit?”

His father frowned, the furrows in his brow deepening as his lips tightened. He seemed to be grappling with his thoughts. He finally sighed. “But what of marriage and children, Jon?” he asked softly. “These are not barred from you. You’re almost a man grown, but you’re still a boy in many ways. You don’t yet realize the comfort and joy having a family of your own brings.”

Memories came back to him unbidden and unwanted, of his half-sister walking radiantly beside Prince Joffrey as they entered the Great Hall, of the smiles breaking across her face as bright as sunshine whenever the prince looked at her during welcoming feast. He pushed those thoughts away. “I don’t care about marrying. My place is with the Night’s Watch. I want to swear their oath. Please, Father.”

After a quiet, his father said, “You may go.”

Relief filled him. His nerves calmed, replaced by a mild euphoria that put him at ease. He would soon join the black brotherhood, a future of possibilities opened to him. Perhaps he would one day become First Ranger or even Lord Commander. It didn’t matter on the Wall that he was a bastard. “Thank you, my lord.”

“You’ll travel with your uncle Benjen,” his lord father said, urging his horse forward. Robb and Theon were now out of sight. “And we’ll also be departing around the same time. King Robert has appointed me as his Hand and I’ll be going south to King’s Landing.”

Keeping his horse steadily moving alongside his father’s, his brows furrowed. He couldn’t picture Lord Eddard Stark leaving Winterfell.

“Your sisters will be going to the capital as well,” his father continued. “Sansa is to be promised to Prince Joffrey. Their betrothal will be announced at the feast tonight.”

Some truths are discovered during moments of peace. Yet sometimes the heart, one’s character, won’t be revealed and made known for what they truly are until one experiences a distressful shock. Jon pulled up suddenly. His throat tightened, his guts twisted, and a dark fury of jealousy flooded his veins.


	2. Touch Starved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Bran had been left behind with Jon and the girls and Rickon. But Rickon was only a baby and the girls were only girls and Jon and his wolf were nowhere to be found. Bran did not look for him very hard. He thought Jon was angry at him. Jon seemed to be angry at everyone these days. Bran did not know why. He was going with Uncle Ben to the Wall, to join the Night's Watch. That was almost as good as going south with the king. Robb was the one they were leaving behind, not Jon." ~ _A Game of Thrones_ , Bran II

There were times—not many, but a few—when Jon Snow wished he was not the son of Lord Eddard Stark. As he watched Sansa walk towards him, her face lit up like the sunrise, it struck him that this was one of those times. He took in her blue-grey dress, her long auburn hair done up in braids. She seemed to catch his eye, looking straight at him. She beamed. His heart hammered beneath his ribs. His mouth went dry and he swallowed, but then to his embarrassment, realized her radiant looks were not for him.

Jon turned to see Prince Joffrey standing just behind, returning Sansa’s smile, running a hand through his blond curls. He felt a flash of unbidden anger and glanced at his half-sister, who continued to look past him as if he wasn’t there. His hand curled into a fist as he watched her halt in front of the prince and reveal the lady’s favor she held in her palm. He watched them for several moments before turning away.

Suddenly, his brother was upon him. “Are you sure you won’t go on the last hunt with us, Jon?”

He shook his head. “I’ll stay with Bran and Rickon and Arya and...” The sentence trailed off. “They’re fine company.”

“They’re children,” Robb scoffed.

Jon turned, scowling at the prince, at the way Sansa’s fingers danced over his arm. “I don’t want to go.”

His brother huffed. “Well, I have a gift for you — something special before you swear the Night’s Watch vow.”

“What is it?” Jon asked cautiously.

“It’s waiting for you at the Smoking Log,” answered a smirking Theon.

Before long, Jon rode through the main gates for the winter town. The town was almost empty but come winter it would be full to bursting. Upon sight of the Smoking Log, he slowed his horse until coming to a stop just outside its door. Once inside, he spotted the innkeeper and enquired after the gift left to him by Robb Stark. The old man gave him a toothy grin and moved towards an oak-and-iron door on the far side of the common room. He retrieved keys from his pocket.

Jon was led through a gallery to another door, which the innkeeper unlocked and allowed him to pass through. He found himself at the back of a smaller common room. He watched as the innkeeper spoke with another man he didn’t recognize, bald and dressed in dark blue woolens. The bald man’s mouth curved into a smirk and he rang a silver bell that hung around his neck.

Scantily-clad women entered the common room, all casting sparkling smiles in Jon’s direction. His eyes widened. They were whores. He was in a brothel — _the_ brothel that frequented Theon’s bawdy tales. This was Robb’s gift; it would be his initiation into manhood. His guts twisted fiercely.

The bald man offered him any woman of his choosing for an hour of her time. Jon’s face grew hot, and he couldn’t meet anyone’s gaze.

“Come on,” spoke a musical voice kindly. “Don’t be shy.”

Jon raised his head to look at them. Dark-haired, blond, redheaded; tall and short; complexions ranging from olive to porcelain; sublime breasts, small and firm or heavy and full — with smiling expressions, they gazed at him as if it were only natural that a parade of beautiful women wanted nothing more than to lay with him. He blinked and stared.

Swallowing, his gaze fell on the single redhead in the group and lingered. Blemish-free porcelain skin. Lively and intelligent blue eyes. An artless tumble of thick auburn hair. Full breasts. Long, shapely legs. Jon’s heart began pounding inside his chest. He licked his lips.

Smiling, she moved forward from the line and held out her hand. “Would you like to accompany me to my chamber, my lord?”

“I’m not a lord,” he blurted.

She smirked. “All right. I’m Ros.”

Hesitantly, he placed his hand in hers. Warmth soon encircled him from the fire blazing in the hearth inside her bedchamber. Before he had a chance to speak, her mouth found his, and she was kissing him, sinking her fingers into his hair, pressing her breasts against him. His head was spinning.

Thoughts of another redhead came unbidden to his mind, desires feared, shameful, unspoken of. His body started to respond despite himself. Her lips, the taste of her, the smell of her hair, the feel of her touch; his flesh tingled, his blood rushed. He slid his hand over thin fabric to palm her breast, his manhood hardening. _Bastards are born from lust and lies_ , a quiet voice whispered; _their nature is wanton and treacherous_.

Jon abruptly pulled away. He felt tears begin to well in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I can’t.” He hurried out of the chamber.

Although his ride to Winterfell was a somber one, a storm raged inside. He’d prove himself at the Wall, prove them wrong. He’d be as good and true a son to Lord Stark as Robb, and he’d never father a bastard. Never. The very thought pained him, shamed him. Yet the thought of marrying and having trueborn children also pained him, shamed him, for it could never be. Jon remembered her beaming smiles as she tied her favor around the prince’s arm. What lady would ever grant her favor to a bastard? Certainly not Sansa Stark.


	3. If Snowflakes Were Kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He remembered Robb as he had last seen him, standing in the yard with snow melting in his auburn hair." ~ _A Game of Thrones_ , Jon IX
> 
> "She had last seen snow the day she'd left Winterfell. _That was a lighter fall than this_ , she remembered. _Robb had melting flakes in his hair when he hugged me_." ~ _A Storm of Swords_ , Sansa VII

Jon closed the door to his little sister’s chamber and began descending the tower steps. Uncle Benjen was waiting. The castle was still eerily quiet. A gloom of silence had filled its granite walls since Bran’s fall. His heart was heavy inside him as he walked down a long dim hallway, Ghost padding quietly beside him. The direwolf glanced up from time to time, eyes like smoldering embers, and Jon would reach down to ruffle the shaggy white fur atop his head.

While making his way to the yard, he suddenly heard a soft singing; somewhere a girl was singing, but it was difficult to tell from where. The song was subdued, sweet and sad; he only heard snatches of the words. The further he walked, the clearer the words became, and the voice. The song was of Florian and Jonquil, and the voice belonged to Sansa.

A few more steps, and Jon turned a corner to see his half-sister kneeling beside her direwolf, Lady, and brushing out her coat. She smiled to herself as she sang sweetly. She would soon be leaving for King’s Landing, and in time would wed the prince. She would be queen someday. Joffrey’s queen. Something deep inside Jon’s chest clutched at him and ached as he gazed at her. For a moment, he considered interrupting and bidding her goodbye, but thought better of it. His encounter with Lady Stark was still a fresh wound. He turned and walked away.

After fetching a horse from the stables, Jon walked back into the yard to join Benjen, who was waiting at the main gates. Sansa was suddenly standing in front of him. He came to a halt. “Were you really going to leave without saying goodbye?” she scolded, frowning.

Jon blinked. The snow fell around her like white, icy lace.

“Did you say goodbye to the others?” she questioned.

Swallowing, he nodded. “I wish you every happiness in King’s Landing, Sansa. I suppose someday you’ll be my queen.”

She smiled, her cheeks turning pink. “Thank you, Jon. I know you’ll do well in the Night’s Watch, just like the black knights in the songs. It’s quite an honor.”

The words were spoken with regal formality. Sighing, he gave her a sad smile. She was ever the courteous young lady. He stood there, hesitating. To embrace seemed out of the question. They didn’t have the easy, natural affection that existed between him and his other siblings. An awkward silence filled the space between them.

“Farewell, Sansa.”

“And you, Jon.”

She then took a step forward and offered her hand.

Again, he hesitated.

She gave him a curious smile, her brows knitting in confusion. “Will you not shake hands with me?”

He moved forward and lifted his hand. She slid her palm inside his. Her skin was warm and soft. Snowflakes fell all around them, melting in her auburn hair, kissing her face. If only he could do the same. His pulse raced as she gave a gentle squeeze of his hand. With one last smile, she pulled back and turned away. Jon watched her walk across the yard towards Robb, Lady padding along beside her.

The memory of her touch tormented him on the long ride north.


	4. In Truth As Well As Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The heart is all that matters. Do not despair, Lord Snow. Despair is a weapon of the enemy, whose name may not be spoken. Your sister is not lost to you."
> 
> "I have no sister." The words were knives. _What do you know of my heart, priestess? What do you know of my sister?_ ~ _A Dance with Dragons_ , Jon VI

Jon stood as if in a daze, watching as the gates closed behind Justin Massey and Alysane Mormont and the small party that had accompanied them to the Wall. Their arrival at Castle Black had given him no relief. He’d woken from his murder to a pain worse than death. He stared at the closed gate. The cold wind blew, the snow swirling down around him.

“Lord Commander,” Satin murmured, breaking the silence.

He didn’t have the strength to contradict him, and so he simply nodded. His steward grasped him gently by the arm and led him away from the gate and towards his chambers.

A fire crackled in the stone hearth. A flagon of wine and a platter of bread and cheese were set upon the table, untouched. When Satin had left him, Jon sat staring at the flames. They flickered and swayed, filling the room with warmth. Yet he felt a deep coldness inside his chest and the room seemed to grow darker. Memories filled his mind like poison. Her long brown hair wet and matted. Her pallid and bone-white skin. Her features distorted with pain. Her nose and ears blackened and lost to frostbite. The blaze of her pyre until nothing remained except bone and ash. Overwhelmed with grief, Jon buried his face in his hands and wept long and bitterly, wept like he had never wept before.

The cold grey light of dawn stole in while lamps were still burning around the castle yard, and the black brothers began to stir. Jon rubbed the sleep from his eyes and moved slowly about his bedchamber. He dressed in dark woolens and then went to his basin, splashing cold water on his face. Every morning he woke he told himself would be the day he would leave, go south, somewhere, anywhere. He’d lived and died at his post, and there was nothing left for him at the Wall. Yet each day he stayed, and he didn’t know why.

Jon started at the sound of a knock on his door and turned to see it open, revealing an older man with a tangled orange beard. “Mully,” he greeted somberly.

“Beg pardon, m’lord.”

“I’m not a lord anymore.”

Mully cleared his throat. “A girl’s at the gate asking for you.”

Jon blinked. “A girl?”

“Claims she’s your sister, m’lord.”

“My sister is dead.” The words were like bile on his tongue.

Mully scratched the top of his greasy head. “Aye, but it’s what the girl says, just the same.”

Was this some trick? “Who else is with her?”

“She’s on her own, m’lord. Horse nearly dead it was, lame and starved. Must’ve come a great distance.”

Jon then followed Mully across the yard toward the gate, snow falling around them. The gathered brothers parted at his approach and he walked toward the girl. She was wearing a plain grey woolen dress, and a grey hooded cloak shadowing her face. He stopped and stared. Her gaze met his. The air hummed with a quiet tension.

Rory broke the silence. “The young woman here says she’s Jon Snow’s sister, m’lord, but we told her Jon Snow’s sister is dead.”

“Saw the body burn myself, I says to her,” added Ty. “But she keeps insisting anyway.”

The girl stepped forward, lowering her hood. Her hair was chopped short and looked hastily done. The falling snowflakes stood out strikingly on her auburn hair, like a net of icy white lace. There was a fervent plea in her eyes. Blue eyes. She had the blue eyes of the Tullys. His heart lurched. It couldn’t be…

“I am Sansa Stark, in truth as well as name.” Her voice was silk and steel.

Jon’s mouth went dry at the familiar sound, his heart hammered beneath his ribs. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Eldest daughter of Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn, the blood of Winterfell, was standing before him. Was this the sister Melisandre had seen in her flames all along? “Sansa,” he breathed.

Tears filled her eyes and her chin quivered. She rushed towards him, throwing herself into his arms. His life had become a blur, but she was putting his world back into focus. He held her close, rocking her gently, her tears bathing his face. “Is it true, Jon?” she finally choked out. “Is it true what they say about Arya?”

A pang of bitter regret sliced through him. “Let’s go inside,” he whispered. “There is much for us to speak of.”

Seated in front of a crackling fire, he stared at her, transfixed, as she drank from a bowl of steaming broth. She shared her tale of woe, leaving him at once stunned, horrified, and awed. Turning, her eyes met his steady gaze. She smiled, and he felt the slam of something powerful deep in his chest, the familiar torment rising inside once again.


	5. A Bastard's Honor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "So they will not love," the old man answered, "for love is the bane of honor, the death of duty."
> 
> That did not sound right to Jon, yet he said nothing. The maester was a hundred years old, and a high officer of the Night's Watch; it was not his place to contradict him.
> 
> The old man seemed to sense his doubts. "Tell me, Jon, if the day should ever come when your lord father must needs choose between honor on the one hand and those he loves on the other, what would he do?"
> 
> Jon hesitated. ~ _A Game of Thrones_ , Jon VIII

Jon sighed. Sansa was standing too close, far too close for comfort. Her hand slid inside his palm, warm and soft and gentle. His stomach lurched. His heart constricted with a powerful longing to take her right then, with her sympathetic eyes on him, her hand tenderly clasping his. What of his honor? He knew what men said about bastards, that they were born from lust and lies, and he remembered a time long ago when he’d wanted to prove them wrong. Maybe it was true what they said. But what of his sister’s honor? To bring dishonor to the Stark name…

 _Lord Eddard Stark fathered a bastard,_ a small voice whispered inside him. _Where was the honor in that? What of his marriage? And what of your mother, what of her? He wouldn’t even tell you her name._

“Jon, please,” she whispered, her voice full of emotion, her gaze a fervent plea.

Her words stopped all thoughts of his lord father and bastards and honor. She moved even closer, her other hand moving to rest upon his chest. His breathing became shallow. Her face was still wet from tears. Not even the red blotches of emotion could take away from her beauty. Lustrous, abundant auburn hair framed her face. Her blue eyes sparkled. He wanted to shoulder her burdens for her and shelter her from the bitter storm that life had raged against her.

Feeling compelled by something deep inside him, Jon leaned closer. A quiet tension rose between them, as if each expected the other to speak or move first. He gazed at her, looking into the blue eyes beneath their brows, shining against her porcelain skin. Shadows around them seemed deeper, lights brighter, sharper, the air felt charged, as if they were on the verge of something momentous.

Their eyes met and held. She licked her lips. He swallowed. “We shouldn’t,” he murmured.

“You’re right. We shouldn’t.” And yet Sansa pressed herself closer to him, her hand moving up his chest to his neck. Her fingertips caressed his skin. “Kiss me,” she whispered. “I’m asking.”

He drew in a shuddering breath. His heart pounded beneath his ribs as he moved his face to meet hers. His lips barely grazed her mouth. “This won’t change anything,” he breathed against her lips, hesitating less than an inch from her face, but not pulling away.

“Don’t talk,” she whispered back. “We’ve already said enough. Just kiss me, Jon. Please.”

“You are not making this easy,” he agonized. His head was spinning, emotions taking him in different directions. He wanted to run, to save them both from folly, but his feet remained planted.

Her mouth curved into a slight smile. “I suppose real love isn’t meant to be easy.”

 _It is wrong to love her,_ a voice whispered. _But how can love be wrong,_ another voice insisted.

Sansa closed the space between them and pressed her lips firmly to his. Jon quickly equaled her insistence, all doubts and fears momentarily forgotten, and their kiss deepened. He pulled her to his body and she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, clinging to him, as if willing him to know just how much she wanted him with her. A sense of relief filled him. After so long, he was finally touching her, feeling the tenderness of her embrace, the silkiness of her hair as he ran his fingers through it, nearly desperate for the contact, to caress as much of her as he could. She opened her mouth to accept his exploration, while his hands slid down her sides to her waist. He felt the echo of her moan deep in his throat while he clutched her hips and pulled her completely against him.

He wanted her. She wanted him. He loved her. She loved him. He knew it. He felt it in every inch of his body.


	6. Through The Tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon's finger traced the outline of the direwolf in the white wax of the broken seal. He recognized Robb's hand, but the letters seemed to blur and run as he tried to read them. He realized he was crying. And then, through the tears, he found the sense in the words, and raised his head. "He woke up," he said. "The gods gave him back." ~ _A Game of Thrones,_ Jon III

The shards of Jon’s broken heart stabbed him over and over. The realm was war-torn, and his chances of overcoming his enemies seemed small to none. His world had turned upside down upon learning the truth of his mother, and the man who’d fathered him. Yet all he could think of was his family, of ensuring their safety above all others. His sisters and brother had to survive. _But_ _I have no brothers,_ he reminded himself; _I have no sisters. I never did, not truly._ That only made it hurt the worse.

He rode hard towards the seat of House Stark. Wisps of smoke rose from its towers into the grey sky, soot stained its walls, and here and there were deep cracks in the stone and missing merlons from the battlements; the large black dragon had left his mark. Daenerys Stormborn had become enraged, and Winterfell had paid the price.

Jon rode over the drawbridge and into the castle courtyard. Quickly dismounting, his stomach lurched at the sight before him. The castle was burned and broken. The torches along the walls and around the yard were unlit, as if some great wind had extinguished them all. Bodies were strewn about the yard. Everything smelled of blood and iron and smoke and death. His breathing came in short, heavy puffs. Fear gripped his chest like a steel band, and he yearned for a miracle. Yet he couldn’t find it in his heart to pray to the old gods, the gods of the Starks. _If they were real,_ _they were as cruel and merciless as winter,_ he thought bitterly.

Finding his voice, Jon called out for them. “Arya! Bran! Sansa!”

There was no response. A wave of despair washed over him, more powerful than any he had experienced before. He tried to brush the feeling of agony aside, unwilling to give up the last remaining shred of hope. He began screaming their names, desperate for them to hear, anyone to hear. His vision blurred, and he realized he was crying. Tears filled his eyes, brimming over.

“Jon!”

He spun around and saw her. She was standing in the yard. Jon fell to his knees in relief as sobs racked his body. Moments later, she was kneeling beside him. He stared into her blue eyes. “Sansa?” he choked, grabbing her face in his hands. Through the tears, he saw how pale she was, with blood smeared across her brow, and noticed a blood-soaked bandage on her arm.

“My love,” she whispered, throwing her arms around his shoulders and kissing him. Sansa then rocked to and fro, hugging him close to her. He asked after Bran and Arya. “They are in the godswood, unharmed,” she murmured in his ear. Pulling out of their embrace, she gazed into his eyes. He watched as her face crumpled. “Winterfell,” she cried. Sansa stared about the yard around them, her eyes going wide as if with sudden realization. “Daenerys never should have come here. What will we do?”

“We have to leave,” Jon said, grasping her shoulders. “For now.”

Tears fell from her eyes. “Bran and Arya…”

“…Will be glad when the realm is finally rid of Daenerys and her dragons,” Jon asserted, watching in amazement as Sansa threw her arms around him again.

He closed his eyes and sighed. He had longed for the bliss of seeing her again. No one was more beloved, or more beautiful. The months he’d spent trapped on Dragonstone, the weeks he’d spent warring in the freezing darkness, thoughts of her kept him going. Thoughts of soft auburn hair and a clear complexion, of the enchanting expressions made by arching brows and her deep Tully blue eyes with the gleam of light which hid in their corners. Thoughts of her warm heart under her proud mien, of her strength and courage, her kindness and compassion, her love and self-sacrifice.

It _was_ bliss to see her again, to hold her in his arms. Jon loved her, and he would never cease to, but his heart was so accustomed to suffering he almost couldn’t believe he was now free to love her without restraint.

Jon prayed to the gods of the wood that they would survive the winter.


	7. A Wedding Needs A Bedding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When it was time for the bedding, her knights carried her up to the tower, stripping her as they went and shouting bawdy jests. _Tyrion spared me that,_ Sansa remembered. It would not have been so bad being undressed for a man she loved, by friends who loved them both. ~ _A Storm of Swords,_ Sansa VI

“A wedding needs a bedding! What do you say, Your Grace?”

Sitting in the high seat of the Starks, with carved heads of direwolves snarling on the ends of its arms and Ghost lying at his feet, Jon set his cup of wine down on the table and looked over at Davos Seaworth’s smirking face, standing upon the dais. Arya and Gendry were laughing beside him. He turned to gaze at his bride, his queen. Sansa beamed at him, smiling radiantly, blushing furiously. She grasped his hand, giving him a gentle squeeze of consent. Grinning, he turned back to Davos and nodded.

“So, let us bed them!” Davos shouted to the crowd.

The musicians took up their instruments once again and began playing “The Queen Took Off Her Sandal, The King Took Off His Crown.” A roar of excitement greeted the music. “The North needs some wolf pups,” Wyman Manderly exclaimed boldly. A gust of laughter followed this pronouncement. Loud cheers and cries of “Bed them! Bed them!” erupted in Winterfell’s Great Hall.

The guests rushed toward the raised platform, the drunkest and rowdiest reaching it first as expected. Jon laughed nervously as the ladies and maids pulled him to his feet, their fingers already reaching for his clothing. He watched Tormund shove his way through the men and boys surrounding Sansa and then hoist her up into his arms. “I’ve seen the royal member, Your Grace, and I can’t say it’s all that impressive,” he bellowed.

She giggled. “I’ll be the judge of that,” Sansa replied loudly, giving as good as she got.

Tormund let out a hearty laugh and gave her bottom an appreciative slap. “My queen, if he ever hurts you, I’ll rip his cock off and beat him bloody with it!”

Another gust of laughter rose up from the guests. With a heart full of joy, Jon watched Sansa laugh as Bran and Samwell Tarly removed her shoes. Brienne of Tarth then hoisted him up as well, Gilly and Alys Karstark unable to contain their giggles as they removed his own pair of boots. Merry, vulgar music continued to fill the air. Jon and Sansa were carried from the hall, a trail of clothing behind them.

Sometime later, they lay basking in the blissful aftermath of their lovemaking. She smiled, her expression one of satisfaction. Blue eyes sparkled, long auburn hair fell loose about her shoulders, perfect breasts rose and fell as she breathed. Sansa raised her fingers to his chest and began tracing lazy patterns. Caressing her face, Jon Stark gazed at his wife and held her close as she lay beside him. His fate was sealed. He was the luckiest and happiest of men.


End file.
